


We Must Tell The King!

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Unbeta'd, promptfill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 17:15:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7541194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:</p><p>Jon’s councilors discover Sansa is pregnant with a bastard, and not knowing he is the father, ask for a meeting with him to discuss how to deal with the problem. When he tells them he will marry her, their reaction is ugly. His is much worse though, and they learn the hard way how protective Jon is of Sansa.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Must Tell The King!

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [We Must Tell the King! - Скажем королю!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857988) by [Altra_Realta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Altra_Realta/pseuds/Altra_Realta)



> Another Tumblr prompt! Enjoy!

“And we’re sure? Truly sure?”

“Her maid says she’s not bled in two moons, that she found seed in her sheets, that she has taken ill frequently, and suddenly cannot stand the smell of lemons. It is true.’

“It couldn’t be—?”

“No, her maid said she had her regular courses for the first three months she was in Princess Sansa’s service. There is no way. The last she’d have bedded Ramsay Bolton would have been nearly a year ago, for pity’s sake!”

“Has the princess said anything?”

“She’s going to be secretive, obviously. But this must be addressed!”

“Does the king know?”

“Not as of yet. We must tell him.”

“Well, I think we ought to thank the princess!”

“For what?! Opening her legs like some back alley slut, dishonoring herself, her king, her family?”

“Yes. At least this way, King Jon may finally see some sense and declare Prince Bran his heir. We won’t have to live in fear of Lady Bolton ever taking the throne.”

“She’s ruined her value as a marriage prize with this as well, though. It was bad enough she was Lady Lannister and Lady Bolton, and that she has no maidenhead. But now a bastard in the belly as well? It’s a pity we can’t pack her off to the Silent Sisters like the southerners do.”

“Who do you think the father is?”

“Either some future groom or a some dead man walking.”

“Possibly Lord Baelish, if I had to guess. He’s been close to her for a long time.”

“The king must be told.”

“Yes!”

~_~_~_~_~_~_~_~

Davos, Tormund, Manderly, Glover, Royce, Forrester, Ryswell, Reed all wait for him to sit. But Jon waits for Sansa.

“We thought it best to conduct this meeting without Princess Sansa, Your Grace,” Ryswell, a thin, squinty-eyed sort, says to him. “The matter concerns her in a way that makes her presence… inappropriate.”

Jon sits at once. Out of all these men, he trusts Davos and Tormund. The rest are deserters that ignore their rightful lieges in their hour of need.  “Where is Lord Baelish?” He asks, reluctantly. He tolerates the man’s presence on the council because he has to.

The others exchanged awkward looks. “We also feel Baelish’s absence was necessarily,” Manderly says, “Given the… delicate nature of this matter.”

Jon sits back. So it was to happen again. They wanted to put forward suits for Sansa’s hand. Again. And they didn’t want Littlefinger muddling things. The last time this happened, Petyr pointed out to them all that as strong and brave their sons might be, being heir to Torrhen’s Square was a small prize indeed compared to Harrenhal, the Fingers, all of the Riverlands, and the regency of the Vale of Arryn. Not to mention his considerable personal wealth. Claiming himself as the only match worthy of the Princess of the North, Lady of Winterfell, and Lady of the Dreadfort.

Jon refused them all last time, Baelish most violently. But he was firm with the others as well. Sansa is not for sale. Apparently, this was something he needed to reinforce to them again.

Despite how his blood boils about this exact topic… the idea of any of these cowards thinking themselves or their drippy, poncey sons or nephews were by any stretch of the imagination worthy of polishing Sansa’s boots, let alone wedding her. Thinking, after all she’d been through, that she was now “ripe for the picking” and ready for yet another arranged marriage.

It was even worse than when the subject of his hand comes up. Everyone has some pretty, fine daughter or niece who would make a perfect bride and queen, it seems. Jon wants none of them. He years for the day that he can finally announce to the North that Sansa is—-

“—-With Child.”

Jon is torn from his train of thought by Lord Ryswell’s booming voice.

“Pardon?” Jon asks, thoroughly shaken.

“I know this may be hard to believe,” Manderly, an enormous blob of bearded fat, says to him in his soft, reedy voice, “But we’re afraid it is true. Princess Sansa is with child.”

Jon feels like the world has turns upside down. He feels like he must be in a dream.

“Wh-what? She’s— How do you even know?!” This couldn’t be. But if it was, that meant…

“Her maid has reported to us,” Lord Ryswell says. “She’s not bled in two moons, lemon smell has begun to bother her, and she’s often vomiting. She also reported finding what looked like dried seed in her sheets.”

“You’ve been having her maids report to you?” Jon asks, suddenly angry. “She is your princess!”

“Yes, and as such, the issue of her health is very important to us,” says Glover in a tone that he probably believed sounded reasonable and soothing. “And, I’m afraid, Your Grace, that we have no idea who the father is.”

Jon knew. He knows now. He feels a bit dizzy over this. She’d said not a word to his thus far. Why?

He takes a deep breath. “I see, well…”

“We suspect Lord Baelish,” Forrester says quickly, “But are not certain. Regardless, this must be dealt with, swiftly.”

Jon cocks his head. “I know for certain that it is not Lord Baelish.” He’d had armed guards placed outside Baelish’s bedchamber door ever since the last time he’d caught the lecher trying to kiss Sansa.

“Well then,” Lord Manderly says, blustering, “We must find the culprit, of course. But first, we must at last fix the lines of succession.”

This grabs Jon attention. “Excuse me?”

“Well, clearly a princess who brings such dishonor upon her family cannot be trusted to inherit the throne of the North,” says Lord Glover, leaning forward, “Especially not when she already has a brother…”

“Heirs have produced bastards before,” Jon says, fuming. The nerve of these men. To so invade the privacy of their princess, speak about her like she were a piece of meat, try to decide on her future without her there, to judge her… He wants to throttle them all. “They were not disinherited.”

“Well, no, but they were—” Glover stops there. “It is unseemly. Her best bet is to be married off at the earliest possible moment. I once again suggest my third son, Torghen. Be assured, she’d have a fine place made for her in Deepwood Motte, where she will not be judged too greatly for her dishonor.”

“No, Lord Glover, I have another match in mind,” Jon replies, doing his best not to break the man’s jaw.

“Who, Your Grace?” Lord Forrester asks, eye gleaming eagerly. He also had an unwed son.

“Me.”

The room goes silent for several seconds.

“Are… Are you jesting, Your Grace?” Lord Manderly inquires.

“I am not. It seems an ideal solution.”

“You cannot possibly!” Lord Forrester objects furiously. “Your queen must be highborn maiden of untouched virtue! Not some Bolton leftovers with a bastard in the belly!”

“A bastard in the belly that could be a threat to your children!” Lord Ryswell adds. “Gods, My King, I know you are protective of your own, but by now, it’s time to face facts. Your pretty little cousin is little more than wh—”

Before he can finish that sentence, Ryswell is on his back on the cold, stone floor of the Hall, his face inches from the red eyes and bared teeth of Jon’s direwolf. Jon gets to his feet, walks over, and squats down beside the man. “You know, my cousin Robb had his wolf rip off three of Lord Umber’s fingers for suggesting he couldn’t rule. What do you think I’ll have Ghost rip off for calling Princess Sansa that? Or rather, Queen Sansa, as she is soon to be?”

“Y-Your Grace, p-please, I—”

“Your Grace, he was merely trying to—”

Jon holds up a hand for silence and rises. “My decision is final, gentlemen. And you needn’t worry about Sansa’s babe being a threat to any of my children. You see, her babe is mine as well.”

He makes for the hall door. But when he gets there, he pauses and looks over at them. “And if you ever presume to spy on or make judgment calls about my betrothed’s personal affairs again, I’ll have you lot flogged. I hope your wedding gifts to the bride to be shall be ample enough to perhaps begin to make up for this grievous insult. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

He had to go embrace his queen-to-be. 


End file.
